/bump!

 

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Secaran patroled the area around Howth, following the woman in the shadows. Slipping from shadow to shadow, faster than the eye could track, he grinned. "What brings the lovely Moryan out to our humble homeland?" he whispered loudly.

 

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The woman stopped and snorted. "I'm sure ye bloody well know elf. Yer kind know e'erything, aye?"


She leaned her back against a tree, looking utterly non-chalant as she used a small whetstone on one of her many daggers.


"I'm looking fer a lost brother, tis rumor that he was seen in Hibernia. He means the world ta me, and I mean ta find him." Her dark eyes gaze about a moment, then draw back to the elf.


"Also, I've heard farking Carrington is lurking. That pretty boy stirs up more problems than 2 bears in a beeshi'e. Best watch him."


Shoving the dagger home in the sheat on her thigh, she casually added, "Anything else elfling?"

Secaran chuckled softly, "Everything? No, that is just a rumour we spread to increase our mystery." He grinned. "Well, for starters, I would prefer Secaran over Elfling. After all, what is the fun if only one of us knows the other. The facial tattoos are excellent by the by. If I hadn't already known what you looked like, I would have been taken in by them." He took a wineskin from his bags, and drank from it before offering it to her. "Care for some? I hate to drink alone," he said with a wink. "If you'ld like, I might be able to help you. I could hardly refuse to help a beautiful woman, now could I?"

 

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A shadow glimpsed. A brush of weight upon the hillside grasses. The merest whisper of a blade unsheathed.


He was good. But not good enough. She'd detected him.


Kheslyn's head tilted, eyes flared. She almost didn't breathe. No muscle dared defy her command for stillness, for silence, as she marked the norse assassin passing the broad-trunked rowan she hid beside, in view of Hibernia's portal keep.


The keep doors would open any moment. She'd not much time. In the darkness she hunted him, marking well his tall figure, calculating height, weight, evaluating distances, determining strike times. A few steps behind him, gaining ground, moving swiftly, releasing the glowing weapons unto their deadly tasks.


He must have sensed her. Foolishly he halted, he turned.


Within one breath and another she'd slipped in front of him, arced the blue-grey blades sparking moonlight high, with no hesitation, slashing his throat. She pivoted to the left then came again, driving both blades deep into his midsection, feeling the leather armor and muscled flesh give way to unyielding enchanted mithril.


A low gurgle and sigh, the only sounds escaping from a throat steeped in blood, slashed open to the chill night air. The norseman staggered, eyes glazed, his strength, his life...failing...extinguished as he toppled forward.


She viewed him flatly. He'd have slain her if given the chance, as surely as the horde of his kinsmen had taken her life not a half hour afore. A cold rationalization, but such was the ways of her craft. She saluted him, and tilted her head once more.


The quiet shoosh of soaring arrows, a scream of agony, and she knew that somewhere close, her partner the scout had completed his task as well. The shadows welcomed her as she sought him, moments later in his company. She felt him behind her, leaning in to whisper. She nodded, gaze never leaving the Hibernian gates, now opening wide to the two, possibly three groups departing.


They'd orders not to kill him...Whitethorne...for now. She studied the Celts in particular, but his warden's form was nay among them, for the third night running. She'd heard rumors he'd retired from battle. The shadows hissed of his changing professions. She'd believe what her eyes told her, and that remained to be determined.


And so for now, she and the scout would wait, and watch, silent and unseen in the darkness of night.


Kheslyn

Assassin, Order of the Red Lions

/bump


get the RP back up there. this doesnt belong on page 3

Her nose wrinkled at the wine. "Nae thanks, wine dun do it fer me." From a pocket hidden deep in her satchel, she pulled a battered and worn flask. She gently unwrapped it from its soft cloth.


"I had this made special, right afore I left.. its made by Nocte, he called it Rot Gut. Care fer a swing?" She unstoppered it, taking a long drink as if it were the finest sweet water, but her cheeks flushed and her eyes watered just a bit.


She offered him the battered silver flask with a crooked grin. "Might want ta take it easy on it though, stuff will rot out yer tongue."

"Rot your tongue out? I'll pass then. I'm fond of my tongue. It has a number of interesting uses." He grinned. "I'll stick to the wine." He toasted her with the skin before taking another drink.

 

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She shrugged in the classic Moryan fashion, took another sip in rememberance of her friend Nocte, then tucked the flask safely away.


"So, ye recognized me, but yer nae trying ta off me. I'll admit ta being a bit puzzled about that. What other surprises might ye ha'e in store eh?"


Her dark eyes drifted to the shadows a moment, but a casual action as if she had nothing to fear.

"Oh, I am full of surprises. Not all of us feel the need to slaughter every non-Hibernian on sight. The man I work for believes in helping people, regardless of the circumstances of thier birth, or whom they pledge thier loyalties to. So, since you don't seem to be rampaging across the countryside, slaughtering those I am pledged to protect, I see no reason why I should harm you. And if you need help," he paused for a moment. "Well, that is what we do."

 

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